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The Cat’s Back (For Myrna Báez)

When your avocados are olive green,

I look for pimento in their pits.

When your cows are the brightest red,

a hibiscus bursts open in their milk.

When those landscapes are aquamarine,

I look for seashells high in the trees.

When a woman towels her tired feet,

rivers flood in my cotton weave.

And when your Tiffany lamp keeps its glow to itself,

I want to smash the closed sliding door,

but when it throws light across your table,

live compasses emerge from its colors

while your cat sits with its back to me,

its tail swatting questions with no reprieve.


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